There were always bright ones—those who moved with a kind of lightness I could never quite inhabit.
They carried sorrow too, but wore it loosely, able to step out into the living world without dragging the depth behind them.
This is a poem about that longing—and the home I eventually found.
❧
–If this speaks to you, you might also find something in
Relics of a Firestorm,
Woven, or
You Were Always Redible.
The Bright Ones
They walked with light at their backs,
grief tucked quietly in their pockets,
laughter slipping out between silences.
What I loved—like a songbird alighting on the branch by my window:
not the mirroring of my sorrow,
but stepping past it without fear.
I wanted to follow—
wanted their brightness to pull me clean
of my own deep wells.
I did not know then:
love is not following.
It is standing still,
arms open,
letting brightness and gravity
share the same field.
I learned this beside her—
the one who found the ground I had made ready,
who made it her own,
whose light I did not have to catch,
only to meet.
A life built not by chasing the bright ones,
but by learning to let brightness and gravity share the same field.
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